


UNTITLED

by cailures



Category: True Detective
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 13:38:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2193792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cailures/pseuds/cailures
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where Crash!Rust and Marty meet when Rust was deep undercover and do buttstuff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	UNTITLED

**Author's Note:**

> FOR #14

Marty was sure someone had put some shit in his drink, the way his hands were shaking. The six foot-something of skinny-ass biker pressed up against him was shaking too, but there was no fucking doubt this guy wasn’t on a heady cocktail of the good stuff. There was a purpose to the guy’s posture as he gripped Marty’s upper arms and pressed his hips close, but not close enough, like he knew what the fuck he was doing. Like he knew what was going through Marty’s head. Marty felt out of his depth, but fuck if he was gonna show it.

He’s fucking up, had fucked up, and apparently was going to continue, the way things were going. The words his girl’d thrown after him as he slammed out of the apartment still echoed in his head, which meant he really wasn’t fucking drunk enough. He growled in frustration and yanked the skinny fucker’s head around to kiss him - if he was going to go down, he’d go down in fucking flames.

The man tensed his neck just before Marty could press their mouths together and the lines around his eyes wrinkled up - dude had the look of a helluva lot of coke ageing him before his time, a shaky, anxious fragility to him - and he said, as if this was a joke he’d just about deigned to laugh at, “man, and you don’t even know my name”.

Marty, revelling as he was in not resisting, for once, what the feel and the look of another man did to him, gave a rough little laugh.

“Well, I ain’t lookin for marriage here, ‘xactly.”

The man pushed himself a little closer to where Marty was against the grimy wall of the bar, in the shadows but lit every now and then by dirty reddish lights. Marty’s skin felt alternately numb and prickly with the danger of this - the really bad tobacco on the stranger’s breath.

“What ‘xactly are you lookin’ for, then, pal?”

A challenge to rise to if he ever saw one. He dragged his hands down the man’s back over the patchy leather of his jacket to his ass and held on, dragging him even closer. It was heady and god, but he was a fucking ass-man, okay. And this was an ass.

The man’s eyes shuttered at that and he almost smiled, did a lazy little movement with his hips into Marty’s hands. Looks like he liked that, Marty thought. Fuck.

“Mm, direct.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

The man laughed, a soft, promising sound, kissed him slow and dirty. Marty’s heart juddered and his cock was really paying attention, now. He exhaled loudly and, Jesus, fuck. It was almost a shock when the man gripped Marty’s wrists to pull them away, and stepped back.

With a bit of distance between them again, Marty could see that this guy was as far from sober as it was probably possible to get while still conscious, but wearing it like he wore his worn-in leather jacket. His brain didn't really get what the fuck was going on when the man turned on his heel and loped off without a backwards glance, until it registered that it was the restroom he was heading for. Okay.

Deep breaths. Clenching his hands and feeling the tightness of his skin, the prickling heat and the way the man had laughed, he followed.

Another hulking biker almost bumped into him as he went through the door, but Marty hardly noticed him. Inside it was appropriately grimy and the lights flickered because of course they fucking did. The man was in one of the cubicles already, leant on the wall with a hip cocked and Marty wanted to fucking jump him. So he did, banging the flimsy door closed behind him, shoving the lock home and grabbing the back of the man’s lanky neck, pulling him out of his lazy stance. The gasp that greeted him was gratifying and he felt a little bit more in charge. Even if he knew he’d be slurring if he tried to talk right now. 

The best part of how he got him pressed up against the greenish-grey wall was the way the guy fucking yielded, like he couldn't think of anything better to do than let Marty shove him around. He could feel the biker’s dick jabbing at his own hip and it should have jolted him out of it, scared the shit out of him, but it didn't. Or rather, the wave of arousal that followed washed that away. The guy was squirming, reaching for something. Marty bit his lips and used a hold on his spiky hair to control their kiss, damn near humping him through the wall.

The man drew in a shuddering breath in between their kisses and pressed the promised lube into Marty’s hands. There wasn’t much coherent thought in his head by now - it was all replaced by the sight of this man against the wall of the cubicle, asking - fucking offering himself, and Marty really could not give a fuck about any reservations he may have previously had. About anything. He pushed in for one more kiss and then roughly turned him around.

Scrabbling around his front for the fly of his well-worn black jeans, the guy shoved his pants down to his knees and Marty nosed at the back of his neck, hearing how their heavy breaths sounded obscene in the small space. He hastily got lube on his fingers, dropping the little tube to the floor to be kicked about under their feet (Christ, in a restroom, of all fucking places) and palmed the guy’s ass again. It was pretty fucking perfect, though that may have been the liquor talking. Bony and pale was apparently just what he needed right then. Enough to grip.

“Fuckin’ come on, man,” the guy mumbled on a breath, pressing back, “haven’t got all fuckin’ day. Stick ‘em in.”

The guy got two at once for his impatience, fuckin’ lip, right up to the knuckle. He went tense and then deliberately not, a groan working its way out of him. Marty grinned and pressed closer over him. He’d rather not fuck this dude up too bad, even if his dick was a searing heat in his pants, so he did his best to prep him. Well. Got three fingers in him anyway and waited for him to mumble ‘come th’ fuck on’, again.

Fucking into him was exactly right, it was so fucking perfect the way he gave way, the grip around him, the savage twist of the man’s spine as he pushed right back. He bracketed the guy’s head on the wall with his hands and set what rhythm he could, hard strokes because this guy, this guy could fucking take it.

He knew from the get-go that he wasn't going to last long. The man was groaning a little at the end of each breath as if he couldn't help it and damn if that wasn't the hottest fucking thing, and the way he scrabbled at the wall when Marty thrust a little too hard, as if he was fighting to stay upright. Marty could see him jerking himself off but it still caught him off guard when the body under him tensed and released, and he swore,

“Motherfuck-”

and came like a fucking highschooler.

For a few moments they both panted, coming down. Marty’s head was buzzing as he pulled out and slumped to sit on the toilet seat. He laughed softly, still fucking drunk. 

“Name’s Marty, by the way.”

The man was slowly pulling up his pants, fastening them with bony hands that twitched for another hit, doubtless. The insides of his elbows were a wreck, but his hair was a wreck because of Marty, and boy if he didn’t like that. Right down to his bones.

“Crash. I'm Crash.”


End file.
